We were supposed to be making a mobile of hands cut from colored paper to show kindness and connectivity. The craft was easy and the plan was simple: trace, color, and cut.
It was all too easy.
I started by tracing everyone’s hand, carefully following the curve of each sticky finger with a pen.
“Ok, let’s color and decorate the hands.”
Baby Brother captured the box of crayons while I traced Little Legs’ hand and held it to his chest with a Popeye-like iron grasp. I suspect he eats spinach in secret. How else would a milk-baby have so much strength?
Little Legs intervened and tried to peel his brother’s digits from the box, not so much so that he could color but to have a justified reason to push his brother’s fingers in the wrong direction.
“Little Legs,” I growled a warning.
As my vocabulary dwindles from mostly communicating with a two-year-old and his speechless brother, the number of things that can be said with a ‘tut’ or a growl or an ‘ahem’ have grown tremendously. In this case, it meant, unhand your brother or face the consequence in time out.
At the same time, Baby Brother did not care for the rough handling and started to scream, releasing the crayons as a fortunate by-product of the situation.
Once the hands were scribbled on, it was time to free them from their paper home.
Snip, snip. I made a test cut in the air to Little Legs’ delight.
He grinned and tried to hijack the scissors for his own purposes. After a brief struggle, he relented and moved back to crumple the remaining uncut paper hands.
Baby Brother scooted to get in on the crumbling action and Little Legs found a permanent marker.
He ran off, shouting, “Dadda, dadda.”
Meanwhile, Baby Brother made a grab for the scissors.
The prisoners have taken control, I wearily thought about the chaotic morning, but not for long. I scooped up the baby and separated him from his weapon. With baby on my hip, I tracked down his brother, waving the black marker in the air in the hallway. He, too, was scooped up and carried back to the living room.
We are going to finish this connectivity craft, if it is the last thing we do, I solemnly promised.
And it was.
Thank God for naptime.